The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(97)

Her gaze snagged on a figure across the way. A young man who’d stopped in his tracks, his gunmetal eyes fastened on hers. He stood above the crowd, his black hair shorn against his scalp like Julius Caesar. The gold filigree trimming his mask contrasted with the dark bronze of his skin. His ivory jacquard waistcoat shone in the warm candlelight, as did the intricate soutache around the gilt buttons of his silk frock coat. He took a step forward and stopped, his satin breeches clinging to the sinew of his body, his head angled with admiration.

Heaven forgive her, but Bastien was beautiful. Dangerously so.

At his back stood a handful of preening young ladies, their papillote curls perfect, their expressions covetous.

But he had eyes for one girl alone.

A low hum resounded in Celine’s ears. It heated through her veins, the blood coloring her cheeks. Bastien bowed slowly, one foot in front of the other, his right hand swooping downward in tribute to the period. When he stood once more, Celine could not help but smile.

Bastien returned her smile without hesitation, his eyes like glittering coins, an unspoken promise on his face. Then he melted into the crowd, unconcerned with those around him.

If Alexei Alexandrovich presided over this heavenly court, then Sébastien Saint Germain was the prince of its shadowy counterpart.

With this thought, the last of Celine’s fears dissipated. She knew Bastien would help her catch the killer tonight, in defiance of his uncle’s wishes. She was certain of it. Lucifer was hers the moment he returned her smile.

Was this love, then?

If it was, Celine wanted to bathe in it. To luxuriate in this feeling of knowing—without being told—that someone saw her, amid the beautiful decay. Saw her and stood by her side, against the very world itself.

The next instant, her shoulders tensed. Through a parting in the crowd, Celine caught sight of Pippa’s unmistakable profile. Again her petite friend wandered through the ballroom on the arm of Phoebus Devereux, amid the crème de la crème of New Orleans society.

Pippa met Celine’s gaze. Then turned away, her expression cold.

Though it stung, Celine was grateful. It was better for Pippa to be angry with her. Anger kept her far from the killer’s line of sight.

Odette spun past Celine on the dance floor, laughing as she careened in Boone’s arms, her skirted mantle swaying on the ingenious panniers. When they turned, Celine noticed the matching breeches she’d designed as a surprise, the gown of Odette’s costume split in its center, revealing her figure as she swirled to the music. Her ruby-encrusted brooch sparkled in the candlelight, pinned in the middle of a gentleman’s cravat. A mixture of the masculine and the feminine. A perfect representation of both Odette Valmont and Madame du Barry, the courtesan who helped rule a kingdom.

Again Celine smiled to herself. Even if Odette never said another word to her, Celine knew her friend was grateful.

“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” a familiar voice announced behind her right shoulder.

Celine twisted around to meet the amber eyes of a tall masked figure. The black domino across her face shifted, obstructing her vision. She took a moment to straighten it, her pulse thudding through her body.

“Monsieur le Comte,” she replied with a curtsy, her nerves tingling in her fingers.

Bastien’s uncle held out a white-gloved hand. “May I have this dance?” A knowing smile ghosted across his lips, as if he were the serpent offering Eve the apple. Celine slid her hand in his. The next moment the world blurred around her, candle flames streaking along the edges of her vision.

Nicodemus danced as if he’d been born to it. To all of it. The wealth, the debauchery, each of the glittering chandeliers. When he reeled them around the first bend—his steps smooth and precise—Celine closed her eyes for the briefest of instants. Wondered what it would be like to put her trust in an otherworldly creature like this.

Her eyes flew open. This world of dark magic might intrigue Celine, but she knew better than to take a bite of its fruit.

“A daring choice,” the count commented, noting the way her black skirts rustled around them in time with the music. “I appreciate young women who turn up their noses at society.”

“All evidence to the contrary.” Fear would not dictate her actions tonight.

“Sébastien must treasure your sharp wit.”

“As they say, monsieur,” she replied. “One man’s treasure . . .”

Another smile rippled across his face, his teeth blindingly white. “Touché, ma chérie. Touché.”

They danced in silence for a spell.

“Have you had a chance to consider my offer?” he asked.

“I have,” she replied in equally noncommittal fashion.

Something glinted in Nicodemus’ golden eyes. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Rousseau, have you ever heard of a game called shatranj?”

Taken aback by the odd question, Celine missed a step. “I’m afraid I have not, Monsieur le Comte.”

“It’s a Persian game of strategy, not so dissimilar to chess. Legend has it that it was among the favorites of the famed storyteller Shahrzad.”

It troubled Celine to realize he’d stolen the upper hand with such a seemingly innocuous question. “I’ve played chess before, but I am not proficient. My father always let me win.”

“Shatranj is one of the precursors to chess. I’d be pleased to teach you how to play.” His grin was sharp. “You may rest assured I will never let you win.”